Never Marry a Cowboy

by Lorraine Heath

  Kit wasn’t certain what to make of that comment. His father had always been too discerning, and he feared the old man might not be as sharp as he once was, but neither was he easily fooled. Kit cleared his throat. “Ashton, why don’t you sit in that chair there?”

  She sat in the plush chair across from his father. Kit sat on the arm of the chair while Christopher took a seat near their father. Ashton clutched her hands in her lap. Kit desperately wanted to take her hand, to find some comfort in her touch, but he refrained because to give in to his needs would only draw attention to the fact that Mrs. Montgomery had no desire whatsoever to have any portion of her husband’s body touch hers.

  He had no inclination for either his father or Christopher to see Ashton rebuff him. Perhaps insisting that she come had been a mistake.

  Along with a thickening silence, an air of foreboding permeated the room. He hated seeing the deterioration of his father’s health, but he was beginning to sense that his father’s illness was not the reason his brother had made this journey.

  Christopher cleared his throat. “Kit, we need to discuss some matters, but preferably in private.”

  “I have no secrets from Ashton.” Although he desperately wished that he had managed to keep his sins from her.

  “You may feel otherwise, once you hear what I have to say.”

  Kit glared at his brother. “By God, you’d better not tell me that you’ve lost Ravenleigh.”

  “No, at least not in the manner you think. Your letters, your advice, and the money you’ve sent have all served Ravenleigh well.”

  Kit felt Ashton’s gaze come to rest on him. He supposed he should have mentioned that he kept close tabs on all that happened at Ravenleigh, had even at times provided funds if Christopher indicated a need or wanted to expand the family holdings in a way their father might not readily approve.

  “Then for God’s sake, will you reveal this deep, dark secret so we can get on with the evening?” he demanded.

  Christopher cast a quick glance at their father before turning his attention back to Kit, clasped his hands together, and leaned forward in his chair. “When Father had his first stroke, I assumed complete responsibility for Ravenleigh, which meant I was privy to all the ledgers, drawers, nooks, and crannies in his office. There, I discovered his private journal.”

  Kit watched his brother retrieve a black book from the table beside his chair and extend it toward him. Kit shook his head. “I have no desire to impose on Father’s privacy.”

  “A pity I did not share your respect for his most intimate thoughts.” Christopher turned the book over and carefully stroked the tooled leather. “Father wrote about the night we were born.”

  Kit shrugged. “I see nothing uncommon in that. As a matter of fact, I should hope the event was monumental enough to deserve mention within his journal.”

  “You are right, brother. The birth of the heir was cause for jubilation.” Christopher smiled sadly. “The first born son was to bear all the burdens that came with the rank and privilege. All the burdens. Including being marked as the first born, once it was discovered that another child was making his entry into the world.”

  Kit’s stomach tightened into a knot, and subconsciously he rubbed his thumb over the shiny scar just below his chin. “I’m not quite certain what you’re implying.”

  Christopher stood and tossed the book into Kit’s lap. “Father did not place the flaming red poker against the flesh of his second born son, as legend maintains. He placed it against that of his first born.”

  Kit shook his head, refusing to believe the implication of his brother’s words. “You’re not making sense.”

  “You are the heir apparent. You are the first born. You are the true Viscount Wyndhaven. You are to be the next Earl of Ravenleigh.”

  Kit lunged to his feet and threw the book onto the chair his brother had just vacated. “You’re out of your mind. You’ve somehow managed to misinterpret what Father wrote.”

  “I’ve read it a dozen times, the words emblazoned in my memory. They are clear, precise, and exact. Father has your penchant for detail. Read his journal. Every word I’ve just spoken is written in his neat, perfect script. I had planned to send word for you to return to England immediately, but when Father seemed to recover, I thought it expedient to bring him here. Unfortunately, he suffered another stroke on the ship. The physician says a third will undoubtedly be his last. I thought you should know while he was still able to verify the truth that Ravenleigh will go to you.”

  With his heart thundering, Kit walked across the room and knelt before his father. “Why? If what Christopher says is true, why did you deny me my birthright?”

  He watched his father swallow and saw his mouth quivering as he stared into the darkness beyond the window. “Because…you were weak, mewling like a kitten. I had already branded you when Christopher was born with the lungs of a lion. You were small and spindly. He was robust. I chose the stronger son because Ravenleigh needs a firm hand.”

  Confusion surrounded Kit. “But there would have been witnesses.”

  “Only the physician,” Christopher explained. “Father paid him a great deal of money to hold his tongue. Mother was in too much pain to notice anything amiss.”

  “He chose you,” Kit said speculatively.

  “Apparently so. But now that we know the truth, you shall return to Ravenleigh and take up the mantle you should have worn all along.”

  “Is that what you want, Father?” Kit asked.

  His father held his silence.

  “That’s what I thought,” Kit said quietly.

  “What Father wants is not the issue. What is of importance is that we make right a wrong that was committed when we were born. Father has made arrangements for the heir to marry at Christmas—”

  “To hell with his arrangements. I have a wife.” Kit uncoiled a body that had never known such tenseness.

  “For how long? Bainbridge explained why you married Ashton,” Christopher said.

  “Did he also tell you that I’ve fallen in love with her?”

  “No, unfortunately, I sensed that bit of information on my own, but it does not change the facts.” Christopher picked up his father’s journal and extended it toward Kit. “Don’t turn aside your heritage without giving the circumstances a great deal of thought. You have always placed Ravenleigh first. You cannot tell me that in your heart of hearts you never wanted to be its heir.”

  Christopher stepped forward until they stood toe to toe. “Remember, brother, I know your thoughts as well as I know my own.”

  Dressed in the nightgown Kit had purchased from the mercantile, Ashton sat on the bed with her feet tucked beneath her. She studied Kit as he stood beside the window, staring out, one arm raised, his hand pressed to the wall, the other hand holding his father’s journal. He didn’t seem to notice the night breeze fluttering the curtains around him.

  For a while, within the room with his family, she had ceased to exist, forgotten in the corner. It was a role she had played most of her life—present, but not seen.

  Tonight she had played it to perfection, giving herself the opportunity to study three men whose lives were interwoven like flawed bits of cloth. She had little doubt that love existed among them all, but there were also deception and lies, things her family had never engaged in.

  She knew Christopher had not meant to hurt her when he’d made reference to Kit’s reason for marrying her. He’d simply wanted to point out that Kit was young enough to become a widower, marry another woman, and provide an heir for Ravenleigh. Several heirs, as a matter of fact.

  Her worry that he would spend the remainder of his life alone no longer held merit, for a marriage would be arranged for him, had already been arranged for the heir. Obligation to Ravenleigh would force him to have what she wanted for him: a family.

  Strange, how she was unable to stop herself from caring for him, even though she knew he had taken an innocent life.

  Stranger
still was to hear him voice his love of her aloud to his brother, to know his feelings toward her had not altered, even though she had been cold and distant on the journey back to Fortune. She had refused to sleep beside him, had spoken to him only when circumstances forced her to. She wondered if Christopher would still insist that Kit should take his place as the rightful heir if he knew that Kit had murdered Clarisse.

  “I suppose Christopher’s revelations tonight came as quite a surprise,” she said quietly.

  “You have a gift for understatement, sweetling.”

  “You never suspected—”

  “No.”

  She wanted him to face her so she could look into his eyes and know exactly what he was feeling. Her head told her not to care, but she couldn’t prevent her heart from aching for him and all the torment he must be enduring. His father’s deception was crueler than the scar he’d given his son.

  “You told me once that you had only regretted not being the heir apparent the day that Christopher married,” she said softly.

  “I lied.” He gazed at the book clutched in his hand. “I didn’t realize I’d lied or that all these years I’d hidden the truth from myself. I only knew that I loved Ravenleigh and put its welfare above all else.”

  “And now you’ll have it along with another wife.”

  “I don’t want a wife.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Unless she can be you. And you no longer want a husband if he can only be me.” He swung his leg over the window casing. “Goodnight, Ashton. Sleep well.”

  She sat up straighter. “You’re leaving?”

  “I’ll return in the morning. Per our previous understanding, while Father and Christopher are here, I’d like to keep up the pretense that we are happily wed.”

  The sadness reflected in his voice brought tears to her eyes. Then he was gone.

  And she found herself wishing that he’d stayed.

  Kit walked into the saloon, amazed by the familiarity that hit him. He’d never expected to give a damn about this state that he was certain had been built three feet above hell.

  “Kit! Thank God you’re back.”

  He turned and smiled at Harrison Bainbridge as he made his way awkwardly toward him. “So you aren’t one of the people who confused Christopher with me,” Kit said, forcing a lightness into his voice that he did not feel.

  Harrison staggered to a stop. “Good God, no. Christopher carries himself like a real nobleman. You, on the other hand, look to be an arrogant yet disreputable nobleman.”

  “I appreciate the compliment.”

  “It wasn’t a compliment, you bloody idiot.”

  Kit’s smile grew along with a tightening in his chest. “I never thought I’d say these words, but it’s good to be back.”

  “It’s even better to have you back. Christopher feared you were dead.”

  “So I heard, and so I almost was.”

  Harrison narrowed his eyes as though he detected something was amiss. “Would you like to go to my office for a bit of brandy and some private conversation?”

  “No. I feel a need for the chaos created by people. Whiskey and a corner table should do us well enough.”

  Kit led the way while Harrison signaled for Lorna. Kit sat and glanced around the saloon. Harry had done a remarkable job of sprucing it up. It would never pass as a gentleman’s club, but here a man could relax and be himself. Seldom was the case in London.

  Even within his own home, a man would have to project a mien of authority and nobility unless he be considered an eccentric fool.

  Harry took his chair as Lorna set a bottle of whiskey and two glasses on the table. She studied Kit. “Is this ’un still the marshal’s brother?”

  “No,” Harry said, amusement reflected in his voice.

  Lorna’s face lit up as she plopped onto Kit’s lap. “I sure did miss you.”

  Kit slipped her a coin and patted her hip. “Be a good girl, then, and leave me alone to talk with Harry.”

  Her face fell as she stood and looked at the money in her hand. “You’re one of them fellas who’s faithful to his wife, ain’t you?”

  “Apparently so.”

  She lifted a shoulder to her ear. “Reckon I’m glad. I wouldn’t have liked you as much iffen you weren’t.”

  He watched her saunter away, flirting with the men she passed. He turned his attention to the full glass of whiskey Harry shoved toward him. He downed it in one swallow and waited patiently while Harry refilled the glass.

  “So what did happen?” Harry asked.

  Kit wrapped his fingers around the glass. “Remember the man shooting your floor?”

  “He wasn’t an easy character to forget.”

  “He’s also a thief. Robs stagecoaches. He attempted—succeeded, actually—in robbing the one in which Ashton and I were traveling. A bullet grazed my temple and knocked me unconscious. I don’t know how Ashton managed to do it, but she hid me from them and nursed me back to health.”

  “Quite an accomplishment for a dying woman.”

  “Indeed. She is remarkable.” Kit took a long, slow swallow of whiskey, relishing the burning along his throat. He lowered the glass and met Harry’s gaze. “Ashton knows about Clarisse.”

  In the process of tipping the bottle, Harry stilled. “What exactly does she know?”

  “Everything.” Harry was the only person Kit had ever confided in entirely. “It seems the bullet jarred my conscience and loosened my tongue. Unfortunately, she was not the dispassionate confidant that you were. She loathes me.”

  “Although I can see it troubles you, perhaps her knowing is for the best. You were bound to lose her sooner or later. Sooner is better, before your feelings for her deepened.”

  Kit shook his head. “I love her, Harry. I never thought it would be possible to love any woman as much as I loved Clarisse.” He leaned forward. “The bitter truth is that I love Ashton more, and she looks at me as though she fears at any moment I will take her life.”

  “Perhaps she doesn’t understand the extent to which Clarisse suffered.”

  “I told her. I tried to explain. How can I expect her to understand when I have regretted my actions these many years all the while knowing that I would do them again.”

  “I wish I were a man of wisdom who could offer you some sage advice.”

  Kit chuckled. “You did give me some wise advice. I simply failed to heed it, and you were right. I have dropped more deeply into the bowels of hell.”

  “Well, if it ain’t the marshal that don’t wear a gun.”

  Kit jerked his gaze past Harry to see Jasper and several of his men standing nearby.

  “Heard you was back in town,” Jasper said with a sneer, his gun leveled at Kit’s chest. “We got some unfinished business.”

  “Harry, move away from the table,” Kit said in a calm voice that did not reflect the turmoil churning within him.

  “Not bloody likely. Guns are not allowed in my saloon, gentlemen, as the marshal has told you before.”

  “Think I give a damn?” Jasper asked.

  “You would if you knew my wife.”

  “I’m getting damned tired of hearing about your wife. Maybe I’ll just make her a widow.”

  Kit held up his hands. “We’re both unarmed. Shoot us now and you will have committed coldblooded murder in front of over a dozen witnesses. You will hang.”

  Much to Kit’s surprise, Jasper nodded and holstered his gun. “I’m all in favor of a fair fight. Tomorrow at noon. South end of town. You don’t show, and we burn every building to the ground.”

  Kit watched the man saunter across the saloon, his spurs jangling. At the door, he scraped his rowel across the floor, leaving a deep scar. “See how your wife likes that.”

  He walked out, followed by his men, the door swinging in their wake.

  “He’s the type of man Jessye would love to kill,” Harry said quietly before turning to Kit. “You’ll need to send a telegram and get reinforcements—”

  “No,�
�� Kit said succinctly. “I have no confidence in the abilities of the State Police. Besides, if we call them in, they are liable to put the town under martial law, which was the very reason the citizens asked me to become the marshal. So we would not have to deal with the corruption and ineptitude that often accompanies the State Police.”

  Kit rose and addressed the slack-jawed customers. “You all heard Mr. Jasper’s announcement. I believe his quarrel is more of a personal nature against me rather than against the town. I shall meet him on his terms. No buildings will be burned, but I need you all to get the word out that no one is to be on the streets tomorrow at noon.”

  Among stares, mumbling, and whispers, Kit sat and picked up his glass of whiskey, surprised to notice the steadiness of his hand. “He said he’d heard that I’d returned. One of his men must have seen Christopher and mistaken him for me. I shudder to think what might have happened had I not returned tonight.”

  Harry leaned forward. “You are not serious about meeting him tomorrow.”

  Kit lifted his glass in a mock salute. “Believe it or not, Harry, the man has solved a great many dilemmas for me.”

  Chapter 22

  Unable to sleep, Ashton slipped on the wrap Kit had purchased at the mercantile and walked out of her room. The man had thought of everything, which came as no surprise to her. He was incredibly gifted at taking care of the details.

  The boardinghouse was dark. She made her way quietly down the stairs. She saw a pale light spilling out from beneath the kitchen door. Mrs. Gurney always seemed to be cooking, day or night. Little wonder Kit ate here even though he didn’t live here.

  She stepped into the kitchen and came to an abrupt halt at the sight of burnished hair. Sitting at the table, the man glanced up from the book he was reading, smiled at her, and stood. Her heart settled into its normal pace as she recognized Christopher and shoved aside the immediate disappointment that it wasn’t Kit.

  She waved her hand. “Please don’t get up. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I thought Mrs. Gurney was here, and I just wanted some warm milk.”